


Sunburn and a Lack of Euphemisms

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 05:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6360382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ariadne insists on a beach day. Arthur's back gets a little too much sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunburn and a Lack of Euphemisms

**Author's Note:**

> Not so much canon-typical violence as very brief reference to canon-typical violence.

It was, wonder of wonders, a legal job, based in Los Angeles instead of anywhere with stupid weather patterns like _snow_. It was also one of those long, drawn-out jobs, with fits and starts as they waited for bits and pieces to come together, so Ariadne had called for a beach day. Somehow—mostly by never taking ‘no’ for an answer—Ariadne almost always got what she wanted.

Ariadne settled on Santa Monica, which was a _stupid decision_ , but she was from Chicago and had never been and it would be blasphemy for her to spend so long in Los Angeles and not visit the Pier.

“There are other beaches besides Santa Monica, you know,” Arthur had ventured.

“And?” said Ariadne.

“We could go to one of them instead.”

Ariadne did not deign to reply.

They went to Santa Monica: him, Ariadne, Yusuf, Eames.

Arthur allowed Ariadne one circuit of the Pier (“Yes, now we have seen people fishing, and people selling art, and people singing, and smelled a lot of fried food. Congratulations, you’re a real SoCal girl now.”) before ushering them all onto the beach. Ariadne and Yusuf laid out towels for everyone, while Arthur distributed water bottles and sunscreen. Eames stripped down to _very tight_ yellow swim trunks.

Arthur had to look away. Obviously because yellow swim trunks were an abomination, not because of Eames’s thighs and Eames’s ass and the way the trunks were situated low on his hips, directing the eye toward…

“The ropes, we have to do the climbing ropes,” Ariadne exclaimed, pointing a little ways beyond their set-up, to where a variety of outdoor exercise/recreational structures were situated behind the paved bikeway.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Yusuf.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun,” said Ariadne.

“I will whistle loudly when you reach the top,” Yusuf offered.

Ariadne turned to Eames and Arthur, her hands her hips. Her shirt was already a forgotten heap on her towel, leaving her in a bikini top and board shorts, neither of which was an awful yellow color. 

“I’m game,” said Eames. “Shall we, darling? This won’t take more than a minute, and then you can go back to basking in the sun.”

“I haven’t even started _basking_ ,” said Arthur grumpily.

“Unless you think it will take you more than minute to get to the top…”

“Oh, you’re on,” said Arthur.

There happened to be an unoccupied set of two tall climbing ropes.

Arthur won.

But then, of course, Ariadne wanted to race against Eames, which meant Arthur really had no choice but to watch the straining muscles in Eames’s arms and legs as he pulled himself up the rope for a second time, and Eames’s face was really quite lovely in the exertion and—

Yusuf whistled.

“Enjoy the show?” Eames asked, after he and Ariadne had descended.

“I’m ready to bask,” said Arthur.

Despite the breeze coming off the ocean, it was hot. (Because Southern California was still stupid, just stupid in more sensible ways than Chicago or New York. _Snow_ , honestly.) Arthur tugged off his shirt and began applying sunscreen.

“Need some help with your back?” Eames offered.

“No,” said Arthur.

Admittedly, he could not vouch for the quality of the sunscreen coverage in the most awkward-to-reach spots, but it would be _fine_ , he would rotate body angles and put his shirt back on in a few minutes. Probably. Whenever he grew tired of Eames’s appreciative (but of course highly inappropriate) glances at his abs, which were, Arthur was proud to say, quite nice.

Arthur settled his sunglasses more securely on his nose, pulled out his book, stretched out on his side, and began to read.

Then he fell asleep.

He was woken up when Ariadne decided it was time for their picnic. He put his shirt back on, did not comment on the fact that Eames kept his own shirt off, and concentrated on evenly distributing the blueberries.

Some hours later, when they were driving back to the house the four of them were sharing for the duration, Arthur allowed that his back felt a little stiff, but that was undoubtedly due to the strain of his awkward reading positions throughout the day.

A stray glance in the bathroom mirror as he undressed for his post-beach day shower revealed a different story.

Large, awkward swathes of Arthur’s back were pink. Not just pink, even, but decidedly fuchsia, the edges blurred based on where Arthur’s fingers had managed to apply sunscreen throughout the day.

All in all, it was not a pretty sight.

Also, it hurt.

_First things first_ , Arthur thought.

He showered, keeping his front to the water as much as possible and turning the dial toward cold as he rinsed lingering grains of sand from his shoulders. He dried off, pulled on boxers and sweatpants, and contemplated his back in the mirror.

The issue was thus: if Arthur hadn’t been able to properly reach those areas with sunscreen, there was no reason to think he would be able to apply aloe to them either.

He would require an assistant.

He crossed the hall, aloe bottle in hand, and knocked on Ariadne’s door; no answer. Next, he tried Yusuf’s; no answer.

He ventured downstairs, but the living room/planning area was equally devoid of housemates. The kitchen, at least, provided a note: _Picking up ice cream! xx Ari & Yusuf_.

Eames it was.

Arthur squared his (still bare) shoulders and marched up the stairs. He did not permit himself to hesitate before knocking on Eames’s door.

“Come in!” Eames called.

Arthur opened the door. Eames had thankfully changed out of the yellow swim trunks, but Arthur wasn’t sure if the ripped jeans and paisley shirt combo was all that much of an improvement. (In fact, it definitely wasn’t, because Arthur was no longer able to ogle—that is, dispassionately observe a co-worker’s adequate level of physical fitness.)

Eames’s eyes widened as he took in Arthur’s half-dressed state. “Darling! To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I mean this in the most straightforward, least sexy, most innuendo-free way possible, but. I need you to put this on my back.” He thrust the bottle of aloe toward Eames, who accepted it automatically.

“Of course,” said Eames.

Arthur waited a beat, anticipating a ‘darling,’ a leer, but Eames only added, “Where would you like to do this?”

Arthur had considered naming the living room—public, neutral ground, nothing to see here—but that left the possibility that Ariadne and Yusuf could walk in on them—even though there would be nothing untoward to walk in on—and so, resigned, replied, “My room.”

Arthur was not stupid enough to lie on his bed, because if he lay on the bed, Eames would surely be incapable of holding back a suggestive remark, and Arthur didn’t think he could stand that _while Eames’s hands were on him_. Plus, if he were on the bed, _Eames_ would, in all likelihood, have to be on the bed as well. Arthur’s bed. Eames would have to _be in Arthur’s bed_ , possibly even _straddling_ Arthur in order to get the best angle, and that was absolutely something that Arthur was not going to torture himself with. Because that would be an awkward situation for co-workers, not at all because Arthur had elaborate fantasies involving him, Eames, and this particular bed.

Arthur pulled his desk chair away from the desk and sat backwards in it, loosely wrapping his arms around the back.

“Comfy?” Eames asked.

“All set,” said Arthur.

“Right then,” said Eames. There was a pause, and Arthur grew impatient at the delay. Eames should just _get on with it_ , and then they could each be alone in their own rooms, as they were meant to be.

The first cool touch against his inflamed skin was a shock.

“Sorry, it’s cold,” said Eames.

Arthur intended to reply ‘obviously,’ but instead he said, “It feels… good. Please continue.”

Eames continued, very gently layering the cool gel over his back. Arthur expected a running commentary, but Eames was silent.

After another minute, Arthur heard the cap of the bottle close.

“You’re good to go,” said Eames.

Arthur stood and turned. “Thank you.”

He expected Eames to leave at once, task complete, but Eames frowned and said, “It’s… quite pink, darling.”

“I burn easily,” Arthur said defensively.

“So I see,” said Eames. “Next time Ariadne insists on a beach day, let me help?”

“Or I could just keep my shirt on,” Arthur said.

“And deprive the gulls the sight of a shirtless Arthur?” Eames quipped, but his voice was soft.

“Funny,” said Arthur.

“See you downstairs in a bit for ice cream?” Eames asked.

“Only if they buy mint chocolate chip,” said Arthur.

“They both take ice cream very seriously,” said Eames. “I’m sure they will.”

 

The problem, Arthur reflected, as their little team sprawled on the mismatched couches and armchairs of their makeshift command center, was that Eames was a common flirt. Eames liked a light game, and Arthur—though he would only admit it to himself rarely, on spring nights with mint chocolate chip melting in his mouth—wanted this: a house, ice cream runs, some bickering over whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher.

 

Early the next morning, Arthur knocked on Eames’s door, aloe bottle in hand.

“Good morning, darling,” said Eames, opening the door and running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Arthur noticed with jealousy that the only evidence of their beach day on Eames’s body was a lovely tan.

Also, there was a pillow crease on Eames’s cheek. Arthur wanted to caress it. To kiss it.

“My back is still pink,” said Arthur.

“Of course,” said Eames. “Come in—or, no, we’ll go to yours, just let me…” Eames stepped back, plucked a t-shirt off the back of a chair, and slipped it on. “After you,” he said.

Arthur arranged himself at his desk chair again.

“Hmm,” said Eames. He pressed a hand to Arthur’s back. “It’s hot to the touch, you know. Does it hurt?”

“I have been stabbed and shot. Multiple times,” said Arthur.

“Does it hurt?” Eames repeated.

“It is a little sore, I suppose,” said Arthur, as Eames began to coat his back with the aloe.

Again, Eames did not speak while he worked. Eames’s hands were thorough and methodical (though still gentle) and did not linger unnecessarily. Arthur tried not to be disappointed.

“Better?” Eames asked, when he was done.

“Yes, thank you,” said Arthur.

“If you need another round, you know where to find me,” said Eames.

 

Arthur required Eames’s services during their lunch break, and again after dinner.

Sunburns were a bitch.

 

“Last time, I promise,” Arthur said the following morning.

“Whatever you need, darling,” said Eames. “We can’t have our point man dying of skin cancer.”

For the last several years of his life, Arthur had imagined that he would die at knifepoint, or gunpoint, _maybe_ of poison.

Skin cancer sounded rather domestic.

Not that he wanted cancer. But it would be almost nice to live long enough to have the possibility of developing a run-of-the-mill disease.

“Job’s coming along nicely,” said Arthur, as Eames began.

“Mmm.”

“Another two weeks, I estimate,” Arthur continued.

“Your estimates tend to be very reliable,” said Eames.

They fell into silence.

Was Arthur imagining it, or was this taking longer than usual, Eames’s hands moving slower, recoating areas he’d already covered?

Arthur didn’t say anything.

This was nice—Eames’s hands, so careful on his still-tender skin. Slow circles, working in the aloe, but not pressing, just soothing. It made Arthur wonder... 

“All set,” said Eames, and there was a movement, a brush of air against the back of Arthur’s neck, as if Eames had almost reached out to touch him. Had reached out, in fact, but only hovered, in the end.

“Thank you,” said Arthur.

Arthur opened the bedroom door for Eames just as Ariadne exited her own.

There was a standoff in the hallway: Ariadne outside of her room, Eames just outside of Arthur’s, Arthur in his own doorway.

“I _knew_ it,” Ariadne crowed.

“Knew what?” Eames asked.

Ariadne pointed a finger toward them. “You two. Sneaking off all the time for private rendezvous in Arthur’s room.”

“Eames was helping me treat my sunburn,” said Arthur, his voice very even.

“That’s a euphemism if I’ve ever heard one,” said Ariadne.

Arthur stared. “For _what_? How would that even…?”

“Eames can make everything into a euphemism,” said Ariadne.

“ _Can_ ,” said Arthur. “Doesn’t always.”

Ariadne’s eyes flickered between the pair of them. “Huh. Okay.” She headed down the stairs.

Instead of following her, Eames turned to face Arthur. He wasn’t frowning, exactly, but his eyebrows were furrowed.

“You said the job would be over in two weeks,” said Eames.

“Yes,” said Arthur. He was trying not to think about it. He kind of liked the house.

Well, he didn’t actually much care for this house specifically—the stove left much to be desired, the pipes were loud as anything, and the carpeting was atrocious—but he liked living with them all.

“What would you say if I told you that I found us another job, set to start a month from now, if we want it?” said Eames.

“Where?” asked Arthur. He liked the sound of “us” in Eames’s voice, of course, but there were certain cities Arthur really preferred not to work in.

“Here,” said Eames.

“Oh,” said Arthur.

“We could… extend the lease on the house,” said Eames.

“We can’t,” said Arthur. “Someone’s already booked it after us.”

“Yes,” said Eames. “I did.”

“Oh,” said Arthur again. “You—you already—”

“Just in case,” said Eames.

“I would like that,” said Arthur. “The job. Us… staying in the house. Although if we, um, decide to prolong this L.A. thing beyond the new lease, I’m really going to insist on finding us some place better.”

“I bow to your superior taste,” said Eames, a smile tugging at his lips.

“No, you don’t,” said Arthur.

“I don’t,” Eames conceded. “But we could probably agree on a house in which the pipes didn’t make me think every time someone takes a shower, it’s the Second Coming.”

“That would be nice,” said Arthur.

Eames nodded but didn’t reply, and they looked at each other for a long moment. It wasn’t awkward; Arthur had never felt less scrutinized by another’s gaze. He felt… bathed in it. Wrapped in it.

“I think we’ve gone about this backwards,” Arthur said finally.

“What do you mean?” Eames asked.

“Moving in together,” said Arthur. “You... You haven’t even kissed me yet.” He lifted his chin. He refused to be embarrassed.

“You haven’t even kissed me yet, either,” said Eames in a low voice. “I didn’t think you wanted to.”

“I thought kissing was all you wanted to do,” said Arthur. “Well, kissing and a few other things.”

“Like co-habitation?” Eames suggested, his tone taking on a teasing lilt.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Not like co-habitation.”

“Why, darling, I’m sure then I’ve no idea to what you could possibly be alluding,” said Eames. He shifted a little, crowding Arthur against the doorframe.

“You’re pretty good with your hands,” Arthur said. "I think you could be better if you stopped trying to be a gentleman."

Eames quirked an eyebrow, and the hands in question settled on Arthur's hips. “Oh, love, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”


End file.
